


sore must be the storm

by The_Kinky_Pet



Series: a fine line [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet
Summary: “You are the last person I want to come to right now. With this,” Ms. Potts said to Steve.  Her face was drawn tight.  “But you’re the only one here and I’m not strong enough to lift him.”“It’s Tony,” she said, voice going soft.  “Will you come?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story probably won't make much sense without reading "No Saint Either" since it's a pretty direct continuation and deals with the events in the previous story. 
> 
> As a result, warnings for the aftermath of kinda dub-con-ish hate!sex.
> 
> Also angst. 
> 
> Uh.... enjoy?

 

After their talk in the living room, Steve suddenly found himself thinking about Stark. Actually, that wasn’t new—he’d been thinking about Stark before then, but with a low gut churning guilt that could push bile up his gorge or freeze up his lungs. ( _Bully. Coward. Dirty, wrong, wrong, wrong . . ._ )

Now his mind turned to Stark with less of a churning than a flutter.

(“Hope is the thing with feathers . . .”)

Steve had always liked Emily Dickinson.

He’d pictured how it might be. Maybe Stark would have JARVIS call him—“Captain? You’re needed in the kitchen.”—but when he'd get there it would just be Stark--Tony?--grinning his cocky grin, with a giant pizza. "Hey, you said you don't hate pizza!" And they’d eat pizza and maybe watch the next of those “Back to the Future” pictures while Stark did something incomprehensible with his tablet. And it would be nice. They wouldn't fight. (And maybe later they—)

Or maybe Steve would find Stark looking into the refrigerator with a frown. "Anything good in there?" Steve could ask and Stark wouldn't look at him, just shrug--not encouraging, but not ignoring him--and Steve'd say, "We could go grab pizza." And then Stark'd look at him and it'd be curious and a little suspicious as he'd think it over, then nod slowly, still kinda frowning with concentration. "Yeah. I guess we could." And Steve would smile at him and Stark wouldn't really smile back, not yet, but the corner of his mouth would quirk up just a little at the side as they got into the elevator to go down to Johnny Ray's.

Or maybe the whole team would be watching another picture, one of those loud, crazy things Clint and Stark liked, the ones that always moved too fast and cut too often. And they'd be debating what kind of food to order--Thai? Chinese? Mexican?--and maybe Stark'd say "Steve--" (No. Not Steve, not yet.) Stark’d say, "Cap likes pizza." And he'd smile at Steve, amused and kinda smirking, but not mocking--because he remembers and he's actually being kind in his odd way and Steve would say, "Yeah, I do like pizza." And this time, when they all went to watch the film, Stark'd come and sit on the couch instead of hovering at the kitchen counter with a tablet and all those glowing screens, insisting he can see the movie fine from there and has too much work and has seen it too many times to give it more than 15% of his attention. He'd sit on the couch this time. (Next to--? No.) With the team. On the couch.

But Steve had barely seen Stark. And it seemed like lately every time Bruce would ask JARVIS to please ask Tony to join them--for a meal or a picture or something--JARVIS answered that "Sir is unavailable" or "Sir is otherwise engaged" or (just once) "Sir regrets he is unable to join you." And Bruce would frown and mutter under his breath. And sometimes he'd go down to the workshop and come back sad and a little angry or he'd not come back at all.

Steve thought about it--once, twice, several times. Maybe he could ask Stark—Tony?—if he wanted to get pizza? Just go down to the workshop and ask. Or just get a pizza first—(yes, much better)--and bring it down. "Thought maybe you'd forgotten to eat," he could say.

But he didn't.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was night, the city a glimmering of lights in the darkness far below. The others had all gone to some gala something-something hours ago, but Steve had declined the invitation so he was on his own in the Tower.

"I didn't know declining was an option," Bruce had grumbled as he set out with the others, leaving Steve in the living room. Alone.

It was a relief.

Steve had started drawing again. (It was something to do. Something, it turned out, he actually still liked in this brave new world.) And he was trying to pick up calligraphy.

[](http://s1076.photobucket.com/user/ms_meredith_milton/media/Screen%20Shot%202017-05-01%20at%2010.02.39%20AM_zpsx6egykny.png.html)

It looked nice. Crisp, controlled, orderly on the page. Steve drew a boarder around the words with firm pen strokes. Then wondered if it would be silly to sketch a few downy feathers, fluttering on the page, falling from the letters and--

The elevator doors opened and Steve heard the click, clack, click of high heels. (Not Natasha. She was always silent.)

“Captain Rogers.”

The knot returned to Steve's stomach.

Pepper Pott's expression was pinched, her lips a cold, tight line. She was very beautiful—sharp navy blue dress (modest, classy), crisp white blazer, hair down around her face.

“Ms. Potts,” Steve said, aiming for polite and worried it sounded, well, _worried_. (Intimidated.)

“You said to let you know if there was anything you could do,” she said stiffly.

“Yes, of course,” Steve said. He was surprised to find her in the Tower. (Or willingly talking to him—their last interaction had been far from cordial.) “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She hesitated.

“You are the last person I want to come to right now. With this,” Ms. Potts said, her face drawn tight. “But you’re the only one here and I’m not strong enough to lift him.”

“It’s Tony,” she said, voice going soft. “Will you come?”

Without a word Steve nodded, set his notebook aside, and followed her to the elevator. She didn’t say anything. His heart was pounding.

(Maybe now, maybe—)

“There’s broken glass,” Ms. Potts warned as they approached the workshop.

(Shit.)

The place wreaked of scotch. And maybe vodka. And gin. Bottles were smashed on the floor, glittering blue in the light of Stark’s holo-screens.

“Tony!” Ms. Potts cried out and ran across the workshop.

Steve’s breath caught. Stark was there, wearing an expensive suit—in ruins now—on all fours on floor.

“You promised you wouldn’t move,” Ms. Potts said, crouching next to him. She pulled him up to lean against the workbench.

Tony laughed, head lolling back like he wasn’t strong enough to hold it up. “I break my promises,” he rasped.

“That’s not true,” Pepper said, then, “Oh, Tony.”

She took his bleeding hands in hers.

“We’ll have to clean these,” she said briskly, looking at the cuts in Stark’s hands, the little shards of glass embedded in his palms.

“Do it, Pep,” Stark whispered. His voice was pained and so soft Steve couldn’t have heard without the serum. “Do it—has to be you. I can’t—please? Please? Do it for me? I’ll hate you, but I love you, Pep? Please? I can’t—”

“Yes, I will,” she whispered, “Hush, hush.”

She cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder. “Captain? Could you please carry Tony to the elevator for me?”

“Yes, of course,” Steve said, hurrying forward. Grateful not to be the pained spectator to their intimate scene any longer.

“What’s he doing here?” Stark asked her flatly.

“We talked about this,” she reminded him.

Stark blinked.

“Oh.” He blinked again. “Ok.”

It was awkward. Awkward to be there, awkward to put an arm under Stark’s— _Tony’s_ —knees, a hand at the small of his back, to cradle Tony to his chest. Tony smelled terrible. He didn’t put an arm around Steve’s shoulder; it made him harder to carry. But he was light—so much lighter than Steve would have expected.

“Penthouse please, JARVIS,” Ms. Potts requested.

“Pep? Pep?” Tony mumbled, fumbling out for her. He left a dark smear of blood across her jacket; she didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m right here,” she answered.

It was like Steve wasn’t even there. He wasn’t sure if he felt hurt or grateful.

Silently, Ms. Potts motioned Steve to follow her down the hall. He held Tony close.

“Just set him in bed, please, Captain,” Potts asked, heading for the bathroom.

Steve lowered Tony very gently, wondering if he should have pulled the blankets back first somehow.

Ms. Potts returned with an impressive-looking first aid kit, kicked off her shoes, climbed into bed, and pulled Tony into her arms. Despite the disparity in their builds, it was Tony who looked small, curling into himself like that, huddling against her. She took out a pair of tweezers and antiseptic, then looked up suddenly.

"Thank you, Captain," Ms. Potts said briskly. "I can take it from here."

"Is there anything else I can--?"

"No thank you, Captain," she said, her tone cold but scrupulously polite. "I'll take it from here." A slight pause. "Thank you."

Steve walked away from the bed, then paused, watching as Stark reached up to run a tender finger down her cheek. "Always cleaning up my messes, Ms. Potts," he slurred sadly, eyes full of--

Steve felt the wind knocked from his lungs at that look. ( _He loves her. He love her **so much** \-- How did I never--_)

"My job, Mr. Stark," she whispered, like it was an old joke, and her voice rough was rough and--

Stark's laugh turned into a wet, unpleasant cough. Potts glanced up and saw Steve hovering. His cheeks heated.

"Are you sure there's nothing else I can--"

"Yes." Her voice was chilly. "Good night, Captain."

It was an order; reluctantly, Steve obeyed.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve went back to the living room and settled in the chair nearest the hallway. It was unlikely he'd be needed again--really he should go to bed, but he doubted he could sleep. So he sat with his notebook.

After about a half an hour, he decided to add the feathers.

They looked absurd.

He tore it out and began again.

[](http://s1076.photobucket.com/user/ms_meredith_milton/media/Screen%20Shot%202017-05-01%20at%2010.02.39%20AM_zpsx6egykny.png.html)

Steve wished he could remember more of the poetry he'd memorized in school as a child. Or the verse he'd learned later--the sort they never would have assigned, that he'd picked out himself, wide-eyed in the Brooklyn library.

(In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree . . .)

That was all he could remember now. (Another thing lost.)

(A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw: . . .)

No. There was no more.

Of course he could look it up. It was on the internet--on his computer, his tablet, even his _phone_ , mind boggling as that was. But it wasn't there--inside him--anymore.

Maybe he’d go to the library.

Maybe they’d have the same book.

Steve started idly sketching the damsel with a dulcimer onto a fresh page.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Steve had nodded off in the armchair, but he came to--startled--at the sound of the door down the hall closing quietly with a snick. Potts left Stark—Tony—at a little after 4 am, heading for the elevator, no doubt to rest in one of the guest suites a few floors down. She didn’t even notice Steve in the living room. He considered calling out, asking after Tony—Stark—but decided against it.

Steve hesitated. He should really go to bed too.

Instead he opened his sketchbook. He frowned at the drawing. (Was that even what a dulcimer looked like?)

There was a loud thud and a pained cry.

Steve jumped up. He hurried down the hall, his heart pounding more than it should be.

Carefully and quietly, he opened Stark's bedroom door.

Tony had just fallen out of bed. He blinked owlishly at Steve for a moment, his eyes struggling to focus. Then his expression went sharp—he smirked.

"Well, hello, soldier," he slurred with a leer. "What are you doing in my bedroom?"

(Was his memory blacking out? Didn't he remember Steve had carried him?)

"Here," Steve said, trying not to sound stilted, as he came to crouch next to Tony, "why don't I help you back into bed?"

“Bed? Why bother?” Tony asked. “Wall was good enough for you last time.”

Steve's heart sped.

"Do you still think about it?" Tony asked, leaning closer. Ms. Potts had bandaged his hands and he reeked of scotch and antiseptic, but under it was a faint hint of lavender and sandalwood. She must have bathed him.

Steve swallowed roughly.

"Do you think about the way I clenched down around your cock? About slamming me into the wall, pinning me there, helpless?"

Steve's throat went dry; heat coiled in his belly. Tony licked his lips and his eyes lit up with triumph.

"You do, don't you?" Tony's breath was warm as he leaned closer. "You're not sorry at all, are you? You liked it. Loved it. Loved fucking me, hard and fast, filling me up with your cum--leaving me filthy and dripping with it."

Steve couldn't move--he was frozen, mesmerized, heart pounding and palms sweating. His cock was achingly hard.

"Well, here I am, solider," Tony whispered with a grin. "So go on: **_fuck me_**."

Steve shook his head slowly.

"No?" Tony jeered. "Why not? Already fucked me once. Why not again?" He looked pointedly to Steve's bulging crotch. "You want it. Want to take my tight ass--use me like a whore, feel my heat around your dick."

"Yes," Steve whispered brokenly. Tony blinked, looking shocked and uncertain for a split second. (Fuck.)

Tony smiled--vicious. "Then what are you waiting for?" he asked. "Get your cock out and fuck me. Fuck me up, hold me down and--"

"No!" Steve cried, voice loud and frantic. Tony's mouth twisted.

"Yes? No? What the fuck is wrong with you, Rogers?"

"I—" Steve swallowed harshly. "Yes, I—" He licked his lips and whispered: "I think about it. But not. Not like this. I--" There wasn't enough air, his heart was beating too fast and-- "I don't want to hurt you," Steve finished softly.

Tony slapped him across the face.

Steve gasped and gaped at him with shock. It didn't hurt--not much anyway, barely stinging. It was a weak blow, uncoordinated, softened by the bandages, but he hadn't expected--

"Fuck you," Tony hissed and raised his hand to strike again.

Steve caught his wrists.

Tony struggled weakly. "Fuck you, Rogers, fuck you, you . . . you--"

It only took a moment before Tony deflated.

"Either fuck me or get out," he said bitterly

Steve hesitated, still holding Tony's wrists.

"I was just going to help you back into bed and--"

"I said **_fuck me or get out_**!"

Steve let go and leaned back, the disappointment heavy in his stomach. He got awkwardly to his feet and stepped away.

Tony laughed. "Where are you going?" he asked.

Steve paused.

"You told me to get out," Steve answered.

"So righteous," Tony mocked, "so honorable."

"Not really," Steve said. "But I'm trying to--I'm trying."

Tony laughed again, and it turned into a hacking, wet cough. Steve hovered awkwardly, wanting to do something, but unable to decide what.

"God I hate you," Tony gasped breathlessly when he'd stopped coughing.

(Oh.)

It really shouldn’t hurt.

“Why are you even here?” Tony asked, suddenly sounding more confused than belligerent. He squinted up at Steve, like it was hard to focus clearly.

“I was in the lounge and I heard a noise,” Steve said. “I thought you were . . . in distress.”

“Rogers to the rescue,” Tony muttered leaning back against the bed and closing his eyes.

Steve hovered. He didn’t want to leave, but—

“Do you want me to go?”

Tony shrugged and looked away.

(That non-answer was probably as close as Tony’d get to changing his mind and asking Steve to stay.) Steve bit his lip. (If he was wrong about that, he was pretty sure Tony’d let him know…)

Steve sat down on the floor next to Tony facing the door to the en suite bathroom and a chest of drawers with a huge mirror above it. It looked oddly blank from this angle, reflecting nothing but the dark, cloudy sky out the windows.

They sat in silence.

It stretched out long and melancholy between them.

Steve didn’t want to be the first to speak. He recited Emily Dickinson in his mind, wondering if Tony liked poetry. (No. Probably not.)

Steve closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the bed, mirroring Tony’s pose.

Long deep breaths.

(“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -)

Minutes slid by, one after another.

(And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -)

When at last Steve opened his eyes, he found Tony turned towards him, studying his face intently. Like he was a puzzle to be solved.

“Why are you here?” Tony asked. His eyes were very bloodshot.

Steve shrugged and closed his eyes.

Tony let out an amused little huff of air and settled against the bed again.

Steve took long, deep breaths; beside him Tony did the same and it turned into another round of wet hacking. Steve frowned. He was about to bring Tony some water when the coughing fit passed.

It seemed like there was nothing he could actually do. Maybe they should talk? But about what? (Pizza? No.) What else could he say?

A strange part of Steve felt moved to confess—to share something private in the dark quiet of Tony’s bedroom, sitting side by side, but not looking at each other. Like in a confessional.

(I hate hearing you cough like that—reminds me of being sick, the pain in my chest. I was always sick. Before.)

(My Da was a drunk, so bad he got the shakes. You shouldn’t—)

(Ms. Potts slapped me too. Did you know that?)

“You were right, you know,” Steve said softly.

“I’m right about everything—” Tony said with a smirk, more exhausted than mocking. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About me. That I’d never—” Steve fell quiet, unsure how to continue.

“Huh?”

“When we—” Steve made a vague gesture between them and tried again. “I’d never done that. With anybody.”

Tony swore.

“Jesus, Cap! What the fuck?”

Steve shrugged.

Tony shook his head and tipped a little closer. “You mean—you mean, that you were actually a virgin?”

Steve shrugged again.

Tony let out a low whistle. Steve glanced over to see Tony giving him that ‘solving a puzzle’ look again. Steve turned away quickly.

“Pretty fucked up first time, you know,” Tony said eventually.

“I guess so,” Steve said.

They were silent again. Maybe that was it? Maybe Tony would just fall asleep right here on the floor—maybe Steve would too. Or maybe he’d pick Tony up and tuck him into bed once he nodded off and—

Steve went back to mental recitations of Dickinson.

(I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -)

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tony asked abruptly, sounding half-confused and half-irritated.

Steve shrugged. “Always have had a temper,” he acknowledged ruefully. “Just used to be better at picking my targets.”

“Oh, no. No way!” Tony protested, slapping at Steve’s arm with jerky, uncoordinated motions. “Don’t pretend I wasn’t gunning for you—I was.”

Tony sounded less apologetic than bragging.

Steve laughed. “Yeah.”

Tony’s brow was creased.

“I didn’t really think you were a virgin,” Tony said softly. “I was just goading you. I didn’t mean for—”

Steve could _feel_ it, feel the apology hovering on Tony’s lips.

“Hell of a first time,” Tony muttered, looking away.

(“And sings the tune without the words –”) Steve almost smiled. (Close enough.)

“Still kinda hard to believe you actually . . . that we . . .” Tony trailed off with a shrug.

A cloud drifted away and the moon shone brightly, beautiful and cold, in the mirror above them.

“I was so numb,” Steve whispered, surprised to hear the words coming from his own lips. He had meant to stay silent, but somehow--

“So numb. All the time,” he whispered, chest going tight. “Before the battle, after the battle—like I was still in the ice.” He swallowed thickly. “You made me feel something. You made me so angry, but at least it was _something_.”

“Huh,” Tony said with a wry smile. “When you put it like that, the hate-fuck against a wall almost sounds sweet.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Sure.” Tony sounded gently skeptical. Steve was about to protest when Tony gasped and said, “Oh God. I’m your first fuck. You imprinted on me—like a sad, virginal little duckling, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve snapped. “I’m not a _duckling_.”

“Oh, honey,” Tony said, voice dripping with condescension, “I am the _worst_ person to fixate on. Ask Pepper!”

“I’m not fixated and Ms. Potts would never speak ill of you,” Steve said with considerable irritation. “She slapped me.”

“What?” The look of shock on Tony’s face was comical.

“She took me aside at the fundraiser after our . . . _encounter_ . . . slapped me across the face and asked what I’d done to you.”

Tony just stared, open mouthed.

“Pepper **slapped** _Captain America_?!?”

Tony threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so hard he wheezed and began to cough. Steve frowned.

“It’s really not funny,” Steve protested.

“Oh, but it really is,” Tony wheezed. “God I love that woman! She is _fearless_.”

Steve watched as Tony’s delighted grin slid slowly from his face, turning more melancholy by the moment. (He loves her. Of course he still loves her.)

Tony slumped back, like a puppet with its strings cut, falling from 60 to 0 in a second.

Tony was like a rollercoaster. He could change on a dime and his every shift left Steve spinning in his wake.

“Hey, Cap?” Tony said at last. He sounded exhausted. “Help me back into bed?”

“Yes, of course.”

Steve lifted Tony into bed by his armpits. (It wasn’t far—there was no need to hold Tony against his chest. He hadn’t imprinted, damnit.)

“Stay?”

Tony scooted over and patted the spot next to him on the bed. He was sitting up against the headboard. (Really it wasn’t that different from sitting on the floor.)

After a moment’s hesitation, Steve sat awkwardly beside him on the bed.

“Mmm,” Tony murmured with approval, shifting against the headboard. He pulled at Steve’s shoulder, turning him until they were facing each other. “So.”

Steve swallowed thickly; Tony’s eyes flicked to his throat. He was giving Steve a considering look that made his insides squirm.

“So?” Steve repeated.

Tony scooted closer. “So . . .” he said, leaning forward, “You should know, I’m really not a good man.”

“I’m not as good as you think I am,” Steve murmured.

“But,” Tony continued softly, “I feel like I owe you a better time. It doesn’t have to be like last time. I could make it so _so_ good for you.”

He was so close Steve could feel Tony’s breath against his cheek.

Steve’s heart started pounding.

“I could make you feel again,” Tony promised. He raised his hand slowly to cup Steve’s cheek, and stroke his fingers through Steve’s hair, then back behind his ear. It made Steve shiver. (Why was he so sensitive there?) Steve shivered again. (Nobody’d ever touched him there…)

Tony leaned forward to press a kiss to Steve’s lips. It was soft. Gentle. Inquisitive.

Cautiously, tentatively, Steve kissed him back, tilting his head to the right angle. Tony hummed his approval.

Steve reached up to touch Tony’s hair—it was still very slightly damp, freshly washed. Steve felt a twist of something (jealousy? envy?) to know that Pepper Potts was still able to bathe her ex-lover, that there was that much trust and tenderness between them.

This close, the lavender & sandalwood scent was more pronounced, blending with the scotch and abrasive antiseptic of Tony’s bandaged hands.

Tony’s tongue swiped across his bottom lip; Steve opened his mouth a little and Tony let out another pleased noise as he deepened the kiss. It made Steve’s head swim. (Hot, slick, good, good . . . but gentle, soft . . . )

They kissed and kissed, slow and steady. Steve’s cheeks felt hot; there was an awkward, nervous fluttering in his chest. It had been easier last time, when he’d been so angry, heart pounding and adrenaline pulsing through his body—as if he’d been watching someone else do all those things to Tony through a long tunnel.

As he ran a thumb across Tony’s cheekbone, he felt very present. It was strange, strange to kiss Tony Stark with tenderness and have it returned. (Not like last time, not like--)

When Steve drew back for a moment to adjust his position, Tony looked so panicked, but as Steve pulled him closer his eyes lit up with— (Triumph? No, no. Just pleasure.)

Tony kissed him harder, passionate, almost frantic. Steve’s cock was hard and leaking in his trousers. He groaned and returned Tony’s kisses urgently.

Steve caressed the back of Tony’s neck, his hair, his shoulders as they kissed. Tony’s hands fumbled at the top button on his shirt as they kept necking. It was an uncoordinated, awkward tug-pull-pull at the buttons.

Eventually Tony gave up on the buttons and started yanking at Steve’s belt. His hands flopped and fumbled, unable to get a good grasp.

(Shit.)

“Tony, no,” Steve said breathlessly. His cock was still aching for Tony’s touch, but he batted Tony’s hands from his belt. “You’re drunk.”

Tony’s mouth twisted and he let out a bitter laugh.

“I’m an alcoholic,” he said flatly. “I’m always drunk.”

He leaned back in and fumbled for Steve’s belt again.

“No. Not while you’re drunk.” Steve licked his lips. “Sober up, then we’ll talk.”

Tony jerked away and flopped down on the bed, with his back turned to Steve.

“You may be in for a long wait,” Tony muttered.

Steve hesitated, then stroked Tony’s hair.

“I can be patient.”

Tony laughed. It turned into another long, wet cough, but when Steve tried to stroke Tony’s back the man twisted away.

“Just get out,” Tony said, giving Steve an uncoordinated shove without turning to look at him. “Get the fuck out.”

“But—”

“Just go! Get out!” Tony said angrily, “I don’t want you here. I don’t want you.”

Steve took a deep breath.

“Get out, Cap,” Tony muttered. “Just go.”

Steve pulled himself to his feet, waited a moment, then walked to the door. He paused.

“Good night, Tony,” he said softly.

He waited for Tony to answer, to say ‘good night,’ to say _something_ ; there was nothing but stubborn silence. Steve waited a few moments more than he should, then closed the door.

He’d taken two steps away when he thought he heard Tony’s faint reply.

It sounded more like “good bye” than “good night.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next morning, Pepper Potts used her power of attorney to check Tony Stark into rehab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this! There will be more in this series at some point in the future. I'm having fun writing Steve's POV for a change. If you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear from you! Comments are a delight. :)
> 
> Still trying to get my Power and Paradox muse to return! Encouragement and cheer leading much appreciated. Please feel free to join me on tumblr: http://ms-meredith-milton.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks again!


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